


Clutches of Iron

by SophieJE619



Category: The Hunchback of Notre Dame (1996)
Genre: Depression, F/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Roman Catholicism, Sort of inspired by the song 'Lifeboat' (Heathers the Musical), Suicide Attempt, excommunication
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-04
Updated: 2017-12-20
Packaged: 2019-01-29 09:36:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,287
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12628119
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SophieJE619/pseuds/SophieJE619
Summary: When you find yourself hanging off a bridge at the hands of the most feared man in Paris, you don't expect for him to give you lodge in his home, nor do you expect to meet the man behind the monster...





	1. Chapter 1

The night is silent, the snow softly falling. The city of Paris lay in death-like slumber, shrouded in the blanket of her shadow. The great holy palace of the Lord, Notre Dame, stands dead still as her bells rest from their day of ringing, her bell-ringer sleeping peacefully in his home in the tower. All is still, all is calm, all is dark. All is well, quiet and at rest.

Well,  _ almost _ everything. In the shadow of the cathedral, surrounded by snow-cover houses and streets, yet nothing more, you makes your way past the place of sanctuary for your people. You are dead silent, for you know that nobody should be out at this late hour, especially not a vulnerable young lady, such as yourself. However, you walk your path anyway, going to the bridge providing a path over a half-frozen river.

You pull a bible from within your cloak. It is written in Latin, but you are from a noble ancestry of Rome, you are fluent in Latin. You kiss the cross that you wear around your neck, and begin your gravest prayer, in hopes that your god will deliver a sign unto you... Something…  _ Anything! _ Anything to make you turn back and go home to your warm bed...

_ “Beata Maria, pray for me, a sinner, deter me from this dark and evil path. Christe Jesu, I cry out for your delivering hand. Send me a sign, something, anything that could guide me back to the path of righteousness. And if I am too far gone, too far astray from your guidance, may my eternal damnation be a bearable one. Allow me to find favor in your sight, again, oh Deo. Deliver me from this place of sin and temptation. Find in your heart a scrap of mercy for me, a servant that does not wish to die, but will do so if it be thy will. Magna Patris omnipotentis, do not allow me to drink from this poisonous cup. Let it pass. Let it pass!" _

Tears stream down your face. You are trembling, and clutching at your bible for dear life. You do not want to murder yourself, but if you were to do so, perhaps it would be one less mouth for your foster family to feed. You are doing this for your family. Well, what is left of it, at least. You are not the first one to come to the bridge and commit the ultimate sin of suicide. Death has been picking off your foster family one by one, always claiming the youngest child for it’s own.

It was as if the youngest children in your makeshift family were guilty about the food that they ate, always believing that it could have been used to fill the older children with more nutrients. And so they let that guilt consume them, as they ended their lives with the help of this bridge. And now it is your turn. You look around in hopes that God has answered your prayer, but you only see the dark of night, and snow. You hang your head, defeated by the silence. 

You withdraw your cloak from around your shoulders, letting it drop to cobblestone you stand on. With shaking hands, you place the bible in the cloth, wrapping the garment around the book. You then remove your cross and secure it around the bundle, binding the parcel shut like a brown paper package typed with a string.  _ “Confiteor Deo Omnipotenti, Beatae Mariae semper Virgini, Beato Michaeli archangelo, Sanctis apostolis omnibus sanctis.” _ You pray as you climb onto the side of the bridge.  _ “Kyrie Eleison… Kyrie Eleison… Kyrie Eleison!” _ You sob, not noticing a shadowy figure swiftly approaching you to keep you from jumping.

You take the fatal step, drawing in what you believe to be your last breath, your dress skirt flapping up in the cold wind. However, you never feel the icy water surrounding you. Instead, the air flying upwards stops, and you feel a pair of hands with  _ clutches of iron _ holding you by your wrist. You look up to see one of the most feared men in all of Paris, holding you above an icy river. You gasp, mortified that he even stooped so low as to grasp onto the wrist of a peasant like you  _ and _ that he’d caught you in the act of committing such a horrendous sin.

His stone cold eyes bore in yours, which still have tears flowing down, yet blurring your vision as well. You shudder and tremble uncontrollably, due to both the cold weather, and the shame that you feel for having the stone cold Judge Claude Frollo catch you red handed in the act of suicide! You turn your head down to look at your feet, dangling over the water. This day and night just couldn’t have gone any worse, could it have? You stay there for what feels like hours, but in reality is only a minute or two. It’s long enough to put you on the verge of a meltdown. You’re about to start wailing with sorrow, when he speaks, grabbing your attention and silencing any potential sounds you could make.

“What,” He starts, causing you to look up at him, terror and shame overflowing in the windows to your soul. “In the name of God are you doing, you foolish girl?” You flinch at his voice, which had steadily grown to snarl at you, your lip trembles and you look down again, covering your mouth as you sob with anguish. Everything is silent except for your crying and the rush of the river below you. When you finally stop hyperventilating and calm yourself down, you say in a sniffling, whimpering, voice. “I was j-just trying to help m-my family…” “And would you care to tell me how you think this will ‘help’ your family?” He asks. The anger is still present in his tone, yet the hostility is gone now.

“My death would mean that there is one more empty place at the table, one less mouth to feed, more food for the rest.” You say, wiping away the water from your eyes. “And you don’t believe that your father would simply buy less food?” The Judge replies. “No. He always buys the same amount. The less mouths to feed the more food for each.” “He must not be very educated, then…” He then notices the parcel that you had made of your cloak, tied up with your cross.

“You tied up an object in your cloak and cross…” He ponders. “My bible, sir.” “You own a bible?” “Yes… It belonged to my family, all the way back to the times of the Roman Empire.” “You are descended from the Romans.” “From Roman Catholics, yes…” “And you speak Latin?” He inquires. “Yes. I also read it.” You respond. “You must be a very educated girl, then.” He ponders. “How could you possibly be related to a man of such an uneducated mind.” “I’m not. We’re a foster family.”

Frollo says nothing, he just looks over his shoulder. You hear a pair of armored boots clank away. You whimper. “You mean to tell me, girl, that you are without your parents and yet you know all of your ancestry?” “My father was a man of the church until he married my mother, and even then he raised me up as if I were to become a nun some day.” You explain. “Both of them are in heaven, no doubt.” “And you would be willing to end your family lineage for a group of people you have no blood relation to?” You look down at the river. This is probably your stupidest moment. At least, you  _ feel _ like it is.

“Minister Frollo, I have brought the archdeacon.” Says the soldier that you assume Frollo sent to get the priest. “Frollo, what is this about? What’s happening at this ungodly hour? Why are you hanging over a bridge?” The archdeacon asked. “Perhaps if you were to look, you’d be able to understand how grave the situation is.” Frollo responds, causing the archdeacon to look over the side.

Upon seeing you there, hanging above your own devised method of passing, his face went pale with shock and horror, his eyes widening. “Child! What in the name of the Lord are you doing?!” “Father Paul,” You whisper, before hiding your face from the clergymen above you. The archdeacon makes haste to aid the judge in pulling you up from over the side of the bridge. Once your feet are safely on the cobblestone again, you can’t restrain yourself from throwing your arms around the archdeacon and begin to cry.

You don’t see it, but Frollo’s eyes widen at your blatant demand for comfort from the priest. The priest simply returns the hug and allows you to cry on his shoulder. Everything is silent except for your second meltdown of the night. “Hush, child,” Father Paul shushes you. “What makes you cry so?” “My makeshift family is living life as if we are all crowded onto a tiny raft on a raging endless ocean. There are too many of us for the raft to hold, so someone must go or else we’ll all sink.” “And you blame yourself for this?” Father Paul asks. “The youngest children are the weakest. We carry an inconsolable guilt within us. We, the weakest, must go.” You say, wiping away you tear. “Otherwise, we are denying our older siblings nutrients to make them stronger and more capable of work.”

_ “Therefore I say unto you, Take no thought for your life, what ye shall eat, or what ye shall drink; nor yet for your body, what ye shall put on. Is not the life more than meat, and the body than raiment? Behold the fowls of the air: for they sow not, neither do they reap, nor gather into barns; yet your heavenly Father feedeth them. Are ye not much better than they? _ _ ” _ Father Paul responds in Latin, quoting the 25th and 26th verse of the sixth chapter of the book of Matthew. You sniffle and wipe away another tear.

Father Paul takes your cloaken parcel, unwraps the cloak from around the bible, unfastening the necklace and placing it around your neck. “Do not take this cross off from around your neck, child.” He instructs you. “Go to your home and pray for hope.” “I  _ have _ been praying, Father Paul!” You reply. “I’ve been praying for God to give me a sign, something,  _ anything _ , just a reason to live for! He has given me nothing!”

Father Paul is at a loss for words, so he looks to the judge for anything to back him up. Frollo shakes his head, and pulls you off of the priest. “She clearly needs to be supervised by a man of god. I shall take her to my home and keep an eye on her there.” Your eyes widen at the thought. “What?!” You practically shriek. “The idea seems logical.” Father Paul pondered. “And you’ll keep her out of danger?” “Of course. For me to let this girl die is as bad as me murdering her myself.”

You shudder, for you are still terrified of the most feared man in Paris. He may be giving you a roof over your head tonight, even if you don’t really need it, but you can’t trust a man who is no doubt looking for an excuse to squish you under his heel. Still, you have no choice but to follow when he drags you off towards his mansion. “Good night, Father Paul. I shall watch over the girl until morning.” He says, to which the Archdeacon replies. “Rest well, Frollo. I shall see you both soon enough.” Without another word, you are dragged off into the night, to a castle in which lives the origin of every peasant’s nightmares.


	2. Chapter 2

The large oakwood doors open and Frollo pulls you inside. Dismissing his guards, he pulls you to a door which leads to his personal living quarters. Inside the first room is a large fireplace, which is dark, but he pushes you towards it with the words, “Make yourself useful and light the fire.” You hastily nod, and set to work, stacking the logs in a way that you can set them ablaze. Meanwhile, Frollo reclines into a chair, watching you intently.

You strike the flint and steel, and a flame is born. You quickly puff air towards it, causing it to flicker for a moment, and then grow to a decent size. You’re tempted to throw yourself into the flame but the judge would probably catch you before you could try. You continue to stoke the fire until it is very large, and very warm. You sigh, not realizing how cold you were, and begin to warm yourself. You almost forget the judge sitting there, until he clears his throat. You turn quickly to look at him with wide fearful eyes. “Well?” He asked. “Are you going to tell me your name, or not?”

You then realize that you had indeed forgotten to tell him your name, and you fumble to spit it out. “Speak clearly, girl. I can’t understand you if you’re babbling like an idiot!” He commands with a sharp tongue and cold eyes. You swallow a lump in your throat and speak out your name, clearly, and without stutter. He repeats the birth given title back, rolling it off his tongue in a way that you can’t help but enjoy. “Yes, your father was definitely a man of the church.” He commented. You tilt your head to the side. “What brought that about?” “Only a priest would give a child such a name.” He then stands up and motions for you to bring his chair closer to the fire. You get up and do just that.

When he sits back down, you stand there, believing that he’ll give you another task. “Come sit at my feet. We have much to discuss.” You kneel onto the floor and sit beneath him, looking up at him with raw obedience in your eyes. “You are established in the faith?” He asks. “I try to remain stable in my Catholic roots.” You reply. “And you read the bible?” You nod. “May I?” He asks, holding out his hand. You nod, placing the book into his palm. It is a small book, by today’s standards. But the size only shows that your ancestors were indeed privileged. Only the rich could afford a book this big. It is big enough to fit in his hand, going from the tip of his index finger to just before the start of his wrist. The width goes from his thumb to his pinky finger.

He examines the book, seemingly surprised that it was in such good condition for being at least 1000 years old. “It’s in the ideal condition. How have you preserved it?” He awes. “I keep it wrapped in my father’s ministerial shawl. I only take it out when I plan to read it.” You reply, removing your cloak, which is actually your father’s shawl. “But you wear the cloak.” “I have my own, but I wear this one when I feel the need to be close to him. I almost always wear my mother’s cross.” “Is that why you left these things on the bridge?” He asks. “Yes. I can’t imagine what they would say to me if I had somehow been able to see them again, tonight.” “They’d be devastated, no doubt.” He responds. You nod, guiltily. 

“And you attend Mass.” He inquires. “I do.” You reply. Frollo nods. “We shall be going tomorrow. Rise. Most of the servants have left, so I shall escort you to the room you shall be staying in.” You obey, pulling apart the logs so that the fire will die. Afterwards, you follow the judge through the hallway to a simple door. “Wait here.” He says, disappearing into the door. After a few minutes, he motions you inside to a room that looks far too grand for the likes of you. “Your greatness,” You gasp, eyes wide. “It’s beautiful, but, surely you don’t mean for me to sleep in here…” The Judge arched an eyebrow. “How else do you expect me to watch over you, girl? These are my quarters. There’s a pallet under my bed for you to use.”

You nod before going to pull it out from underneath the many layers of bed clothes that hang over the sides of the Judge’s resting place. You pick it up and place it in a corner that you felt he didn’t use often. The judge nods in affirmation when you look at him, to confirm that he wasn’t opposed to the placement of your far less extravagant sleeping place. “That is a good spot. Go on and rest, now. It’s late, far too late for either of us to be awake, still.” You nod, obediently laying down on the frame. It is small, yet still comfortable.

You curl up in a ball, but before you can stop yourself, you sit up and say, “Sir?” “Yes?” The Judge replies, a little unpleasantly surprised that a peasant girl would speak to him without being spoken to, first. “What is it, girl?” “Thank you. You really didn’t need to stoop so low for me. May good rest find you tonight, your honor.” You say, laying back down onto the pallet. The judge said nothing at first, only nodding in acknowledgement to your words. After he settled into his own bed, silence filled the air, aside from the crackling of a flame in the fireplace, as all physicians recommend there to be. Finally, as you were about to fall asleep, the Judge said, “May good rest find you, as well.”

Your eyes shoot open at his words. He doesn’t seem to be a kind of man to care for others, yet here he is, keeping you close enough to watch over you through this dark trial you’re facing. It’s overwhelming that a man of such power would even acknowledge you in any way other than how a master would acknowledge his little servant maid. And yet, the judge saved your life… He invited you into his home… He gave you a place to sleep… in his bedroom, no less! Your heartbeat calms, as you will yourself into a lulling sleep. Your facial muscles relax, and you don an expression of peaceful slumber…

Well, almost. Your eyebrows are still furrowed from years of stress, tears, and a long for a time of comforting carelessness. This is the first night in years where you haven’t been plagued with nightmares of your young fallen predecessors. It’s blissfully dreamless. Nothing but black surrounds you. There is nothing. Nothing to terrorize you in the night.

You suffer no visions of the bridge, you are not forced to watch and move forward as each child jumps off, a string of waterlogged corpses floating along the icy river. You are not forced to jump off yourself, nor watch from the perspective of a ghost as your older foster sister jumps off after you, followed by your older foster brother. You are not dragged down to the pit of hell by a demon. You are not tossed into a lake of raging fire. You are not consumed by it’s flames, only to be pulled out by the devil himself and ravaged of all virtue and holiness left in your mangled soul. You do not wake up in the night, crying. You do not go to the bridge again that night. You do not contemplate jumping off. You live to see the next morning.


End file.
